


The Cease Fire Uplifted

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is ready for anything, well, except for Arthur to shove him against the wall--hard--and crowd up into his space, already grinding against Eames' hip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cease Fire Uplifted

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the [kink meme](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19177.html?thread=44023529#t44023529). Now I've cleaned it up just a little and orphaned here.

Eames realizes that they've been winding up to something. The verbal barbs, perceived insults, and the differences in their methodology were gaining energy like a steam engine heading a curve too fast, some doomed transit carrying them along but without anyone strong enough to pull the brakes. Actually, the simile was shit, because it's not that they're not strong enough, it's just that neither of them seems to know how.

Honestly, he thought it would be pure, physical violence. The sort that happens when tempers are low and stress is high. Bloody each other up a little and get back to work. Something to cut through the testosterone and contest between them so they can focus better on the job rather than having to outsmart each other _as well_ as Fisher.

That's what he expects, anyway, when Arthur asks him to hang back in the warehouse after hours. He even invites it by asking 'What is it I can do for you, Arthur?' in his most snobbish, put-out voice as soon as the door shuts behind Ariadne.

He's ready for anything, well, except for Arthur to shove him against the wall--hard--and crowd up into his space, already grinding against Eames' hip. 

This is a far better idea which to achieve the same ends, anyway.

So he lets Arthur box him against the wall, held there with strong hands splayed out over his hips. Arthur pushes in for a kiss and it's almost a surprise that this won't be a simple, angry jerk-off session. But Eames can get into it, oh yes. Their teeth clack together in the violence of it. 

Irrationally, to Eames, the bitter copper taste tastes like condescension. In retaliation, he wrenches his hands into Arthur's hair, easily twining his fingers into a hold that he can use to yank Arthur's head back at an angle. The newly exposed skin, from jaw to loosened tie, is beautiful. Arthur holds the position, allowing Eames to kiss and suck along the line of jaw and Adam's apple fiercely. On anyone else Eames might take it to mean a submission of sorts, but he doubts Arthur even knows the word. 

Arthur doesn't submit, he just bides his time.

The thought spurs Eames into preemptive action. Curling his fingers a tighter, it must be painful though Arthur doesn't so much as flinch, he presses down gently but firmly. No room for arguments, but enough of suggestion-rather-than-force to let Arthur know he's welcome to concede this battle--because that's what this is--and walk out the door.

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, crushing Eames' hips all the harder in his hands, but looks amused-- _superior_ , Eames thinks--and goes to his knees under Eames' hand.

It's almost enough to make Eames forget to maintain his grip. He's only reminded when Arthur curls a hand along his knuckles and presses around his hand. Eames cinches his grip down again and he swear that Arthur almost smiles.

Then Arthur's hands, clever hands, are undoing his trousers and he doesn't need the reminder, because his hands have a mind of their own, dragging Arthur forward bodily at the image and anticipation.

"You're beautiful on your knees, darling," he says and means it to be nasty, but it sounds more breathless. The 'darling,' something he's certainly never called _Arthur_ before, was supposed to be a taunt, but it's almost entirely lost as the breath runs out of him unexpectedly.

He's so hard he can hard he can hardly think. Honestly, he's been hard since the moment his back hit the wall.

Arthur, the damn tease, is looking up at him--hair a mess around Eames' hands, eyes dark, smug little grin--as he shoves Eames' trousers and all just enough down to free his cock, but doesn't do anything more.

"C'mon, then," Eames bites out, pulling Arthur's head forward a little to illustrate the point.

Arthur holds off, tendons straining in his neck, and says, voice far too controlled even with that hint of anger and lust, "This enough contribution, Eames?" Then he takes all of Eames into his mouth, sucking _hard_ , like it's an argument. Eames knees nearly desert him, he's distantly aware that the vast majority of his support is coming from Arthur's hands bracing his thigh and hip to the wall. He straightens out his knees, guiding Arthur's head up and down again. For his part, Arthur hasn't lost an ounce of enthusiasm, because he's sucking and licking wetly, hotly. 

"You gorgeous bastard," Eames hisses, because his tongue has never agreed to being filtered during sex even though--or possibly because--he so carefully guards his words the rest of the time. "Fucking _first class_ bastard, always with your disdain and condescension." He pulls a little at Arthur's hair, enough so that he chokes and pulls back a bit, which is a good thing, because Eames is getting too far gone too quickly. Another few swipes of Arthur's talented tongue and he'd have been coming down that lovely throat--

Except, that's what this: a quick way to get off, burn down the tension, nothing more so the thought is out of place in this context. He should have just held him there, held him in place, and taken his fucking mouth so that he could return the favor and crawl back to the dark hotel room alone.

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur says, gasping a little, gracefully shifting from his knees to a crouch. "A little control, okay."

And that, too, sends a little spark of anger through Eames. Usually, he's in better control of things, but in this strange new world where Arthur kisses brutally and goes swallows cock like he's born for it and arches into the fingers knotted through his hair Eames can't resist releasing his hands only to grab that tie, loosened sometime during the workday, and haul him up so they're eye-to-eye again.

He can't resist kissing into those lips again. This time with a little less force, no taste of blood or condescension lurking, but instead a long lick between Arthur's lips like exploring a dangerous new territory.

Really, that's Arthur all around: a dangerous new place in which he desperately wants to lose himself. But that's a thought for another time, with a lot more booze.

"First class bastard," he says again, because he likes the sound of it, the _fit_ of it for Arthur. He presses small kisses to the corner of Arthur's lips so he can speak, "Always so clever, sitting there with your facts and observations." He gulps in a breath, kisses deeply, says: "It makes me want to wreck you."

"So do it," Arthur responds and finally his breathing is as jagged as Eames', their chests heaving under the press of each other. Arthur is nipping at his lower lip, running his hands under Eames' shirt with the light press of finger tips.

"Oh, Christ," he says, "Condom?"

"Desk," Arthur says, pressing teeth and lips below Eames' collar. 

Eames feigns incredulity, which isn't hard considering he is rather shocked, "Dare I ask who you were hoping for?"

Arthur shoves him away with something dangerously close to rolling his eyes. "Why, Mr. Eames. I thought you knew I was waiting for you to notice me." The sarcasm is thick, but not cutting. He can't help but huff out a laugh and follow Arthur, all hands pressing against Arthur's ass and slim sides, pressing his mouth into the nape of his neck, as they move to the desk.

Even with Eames pressing him from behind into the edge of the desk, it only takes a second of fishing for Arthur to produce a condom and a packet of lube, which he offers over his shoulder at Eames. "Fuck me."

"God, yes." He pats the desk. "Hop up."

Easy as that, Arthur shoves a stack of files aside and does. Eames sets the supplies on top of them for the moment, all too happy to appreciate 

"I think I like this new Arthur."

"For a forger, you can be really unobservant, Eames." With a hand wrapped around the back of Eames' neck and legs wrapped around Eames' waist, Arthur pulls him forward so he's leaning over Arthur and the desk. His lips are a bare centimeter from Arthur's when Arthur asks, "Thought you wanted to 'wreck me'?"

"Hmm, in time." 

"Promises, promises," Arthur laughs into the crook of his neck. It's warm, almost friendly.

But the mood has changed, the need to hurt or be hurt bled out of it. When they kiss, it's different again this time. There's no tentativeness about it this time, but not violence, either. This time they kiss like they've wanted to do it for ages, gasping into each others mouth. Eames doesn't break contact, hitches Arthur's leg so their hip align together.

Arthur mutters a curse, jolting with the pleasure of it and scrambles to remove his own belt, which is a bit of struggle with his legs as they are. Eames helps, yanking Arthur half off the desk to get not only the belt, but the trousers as well off and gone. And that's a fine state of affairs, because it makes it all the more easy for him to run his fingers over Arthur's ass, running an experimental finger against his hole.

"Damn it, Eames," Arthur manages to grit out before trailing off into an incoherent groan. 

Arthur like this, bare only from the waist down, head tilted back to rest on the desk, legs hooked around Eames is perfect.

Eames trails one errant finger from Arthur's forehead, down his nose, across the ridge of his throat. The look Arthur gives him is questioning.

"Maybe I don't want to wreck you."

"That's fine, too." Arthur takes Eames' hand by the thumb, guides it over to the condom, "But you're still going to fuck me."

"Of course," he laughs and can't resist leaning down to kiss Arthur more, open-mouthed and imprecise even as he uses both hands to tear open the small packet, slick a finger, and press in gently with just the tip. Arthur's breath hitches, so physical that Eames swears he can feel it.

"Alright?" he asks and pushes further in. 

Arthur answers with a vigorous nod, so Eames adds another finger, scissoring them deftly. Arthur sounds broken already, moaning and scrabbling for some sort of purchase along the muscles of Eames' back and sides. 

"I'm not going to fucking break, Eames, just--Jesus--just get-- _fuck me_ already--fucking--"

Eames complies helplessly to such lovely begging, sliding the condom on with a stroke, and lining up. Obviously not fast enough for Arthur's tastes, because hands grab at his hips and dragging him in.

He bites his tongue painfully and stays still. Eames isn't sure if he's more afraid of coming prematurely like a damn teenager--because Arthur is a fucking _vise_ around him or saying something embarrassing--because Arthur's expression, open and honest like he's never seen him before.

The hands leave his hips and reach up to cup the back of his head, slide down to rest against his cheek.

And how the fuck did they get here, touching each other's _faces_ , when this was meant to be a hard fuck to bleed out the tension?

He starts up a slow rhythm, more to hold back the threatening orgasm than anything else he tell himself--certainly not because of each delicious, low moan and breathy 'please' it seems to draw from Arthur and certainly not because of how Arthur's hand still rests between the skin of his cheek and ear.

All too soon, it's getting away from him, causing him to slam harder than he planned into Arthur again and again, which apparently works for Arthur, because he comes first. A few thrusts later and Eames is collapsing on top of him, trying to catch his breath.

Trying to figure out what the hell just happened here.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, that will get at the situation, explain things, but all that comes out is: "Come back to my hotel with me, Arthur."

"No," Arthur refuses immediately and rolls him off so he can escape, already tugging his pants back up. Eames isn't sure why the rejection hurts when he should have expected it. He's removing the condom--where the hell does one toss these things so coworkers aren't suspicious come morning?--and about to brush off the offer with a joke, probably with an insult attached so they can begin this whole strange song and dance over again, but Arthur kisses the corner of his mouth quick, nothing more than a peck, "I have some work left to do tonight."

"Right, then. See you in the morning, Arthur," but it's still scraping raw inside him, walking out of the warehouse alone while Arthur's still adjusting his various layers back into place.

\---

He's just getting in the shower after having admired the handspan of bruises at his hips and little dots of color along his collar-line when the phone starts ringing. He gets out, sopping wet probably just in time to save it from going to voice mail. It's Arthur's number calling. He picks up, says, "Miss me already?"

"It's time to move. The funeral is Thursday." 

It's Arthur, tone business-like and carefully ambiguous in deference to the public line, but obviously referring to Fisher Sr. It's a necessity and Eames can deal with it. 

But he doesn't have to, because Arthur huffs a sigh and adds, "But, yes. Now get over here, we've a plane to catch."


End file.
